There was absolutely no sign of Irene Adler since that wintry night and that alone made Sherlock a little more suspicious. He knew Irene had been following him or his activities for quite a few decades since he left her, but there was a part of him that knew it was only her way of making sure he was okay and not dead somewhere in London or in prison. John had no idea the encounter had even occurred and he had absolutely no reason to know unless her presence posed a potential threat to his safety. But since it did not, John was left politely in the dark and he would not know until the time came, if it ever would.

One fine spring evening, John was lounging about the flat with the windows open-airing it out a bit since Sherlock refused to let him or Mrs. Hudson dust-when Sherlock decided to barge in the room with a boxful of blood and went to go put the packets in his special drawer in the refrigerator. John gave a heavy sigh as he watched Sherlock from his position on the couch and decided to follow Sherlock into the kitchen to unload his stock. It was a bit of routine now for the two of them to do this: John just sitting there absolutely fascinated by the fact that he had grown so used to watching this man, a vampire, going about his daily life like nothing about him was different. Really, there wasn't too much of a difference except that Sherlock's senses were far greater than John's, he was far older, and he drank blood to keep himself alive. Oh, and he was supposed to be dead.

"How often do you have to drink blood?" John asked, a surprisingly new question, "Sorry if that's a bit out of the blue, I was just…wondering…"

Sherlock closed the fridge and folded his coat over his arm as he set a juice box on the counter, and answered, "As often as I need to. Just like humans do when they're hungry. Though, I do have a fairly different diet and eating habit than most humans or even vampires for that matter. I only drink these to…to…yes."

Without another word, Sherlock picked up his juice box, hung up his coat and scarf, and isolated himself from the world in his corner of the sofa where he sat and tapped away on his laptop, sipping on his juice box. Eventually, John decided he wouldn't push Sherlock into giving him an answer, but he still had a few more questions to ask him despite knowing Sherlock was a vampire for just a little over two months now.

"Sherlock?" John asked from the kitchen as he made his way into the sitting room to sit in his own chair.

"Hm?" the detective replied, unmoving.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"Ha. Ha. I'm being serious, Sherlock. This is important."

Sherlock sighed and moved his laptop aside to give his full attention to John, "Yes?"

"Um…n-now that I know…what you are, is there any threat to my life? Not from you, but from others like you?"

Sherlock had been hoping John wouldn't ask that question, but he knew the man would have to wonder eventually. He just wished he would wonder after he got everything and everyone off his own trail and sorted everything out.

"No," he answered, "They don't know you know, and they don't even know who you are. You're safe."

"Oh…good, that's good…yes…"

"Is something the matter, John?"

"No, I was just thinking."

"Thinking?"

"Yeah, thinking."

"Of what?"

"Just…about things. So, does normal food taste bad to you?"

Swift change of subject, but a good one, he supposed. Sherlock shrugged and pulled his laptop onto his legs again, and answered, "No, not really. I just have to keep a good balance of blood in my diet for it to taste normal."

"Oh, I see."

"Yes."

The conversation came to a close and it seemed John was out of questions already and he did not need to ask anymore, nor did he really have a reason to. All the stereotypical questions had been answered, all the safety concerns had been answered even if not to the fullest, and John was comfortable still living with Sherlock without a problem whatsoever. The most he had to get used to was the mere fact that Sherlock could easily turn on a dime and kill him if he so chose. The mere thought nearly scared John to the core and he quickly banished the thought from his mind and tried to think about his full stomach and the long day at the clinic he had ahead of him.

"I, uh…I think I'll go to bed now," said John as he rose from his chair, "You'll be going to bed late again, then?"

Sherlock nodded and took a long sip of his blood, continuing to scroll down through John's blog and berate his posts both verbally and virtually. John shook his head as he climbed the stairs and locked himself away in his room where he would not be bothered the rest of the night. He needed this time alone to himself what with the hectic week of a quintuple homicide they'd just laid to rest; downtime was all he needed.

As he changed his clothes and tucked himself beneath his sheets in his pitch black room, he began to think and allow his mind to wander. He thought about his sister and her drinking problem, he thought about his mother and father and how he'd forgotten to call them over the weekend for their anniversary, and he thought about Sherlock. The way he seemed to move like a ghost, the way he seemed so comfortable with John, and even the way he seemed to move along in the mundane lifestyle without a hitch…except his want for blood; that was about it. These thoughts sometimes kept John awake at night, but tonight, he fell right asleep and was out before he could even think about how great of an impact this vampire, this man had on him so soon.

Everything was black and a heavy scent of blood was pulling John towards an unknown object. As he was pulled forward, he found himself to be in the presence of danger, but what it was he could not see. It wasn't until he was thrown into a large room that he found light, though it was a dim red and seemed…to have life. John carefully lifted himself from the floor and saw exactly where the sickening stench of blood led to.

There over a young blond man's body stood a tall, lanky, pale man with eyes as red as the blood that stained his lips and chin. However it was the dark hair atop his head that struck John with the familiarity of the man and he sucked in a silent breath. John was the half-dead man laying beneath the dark-haired man…his best friend.

John shook his head in disbelief and tried to back up, but each move he made only forced him closer to Sherlock who was now bent over the other John, ready to drink the rest of his blood. John's heart was thundering in his ears and the other John was trying to not move at all, yet his eyes followed the trail of blood and his eyes met John's. His heart stopped and he broke contact to look up at the vampire whose eyes were now bearing down upon him.

"Well," he purred after a long moment, his eyes still locked on John, "what have we here? Another victim for my fangs to taste your blood…hm…delicious…"

John's heart was pounding in his chest and he fought to back up again, but he couldn't move. The vampire could smell his fear and slithered over the other John, and the moment his black cloak swept over the body, he was gone, and they were alone.

"I-I-I…" John stammered, but he was unable to make another sound, for Sherlock's long fingers where caressing his cheeks and their faces were inches apart, the smell of blood overwhelming his nostrils and almost making him sick.

"Hush now, don't be shy," Sherlock hummed as his fingernails traced over John's cheeks.

"Don't touch me," he hissed, but it didn't seem to do any good, for Sherlock took his face in his ice cold hands entirely and pulled him a little closer.

"I thought you were interested in this, John. It's written clear on your face. Always has been."

"Stop—"

"Oh no, no, no, dear John. I need to taste you."

"No you don't. You stay away from me, monster."

Sherlock looked as if John had struck him across the face and the hands that were once gentle on his face became tight and his nails were digging into his skin, surely cutting him. John couldn't cry out in pain, all he could do was weep and grab Sherlock's wrists to try and pry them off his face as tears fell down his cheeks. But it was no use; Sherlock's hold was far too strong and John was far too weak to pull him off. The icy hands around John's face became warm as the vampire leaned in closer to sniff his flesh, to taste the skin of his cheek, and to feel the pounding pulse in his neck.

"It's a wonder I haven't killed you yet," he purred against his neck, "You're so…delicious…"

The moment Sherlock's fangs dug into John's neck, he let out the loudest scream and he sat up straight in bed, his forehead damp with sweat and the scream fresh in his throat.

Sherlock was up the stairs in a matter of seconds and flipped on the light of John's room before going to his aid, glad to see he wasn't being murdered. However, the moment Sherlock went to John, the man backed up into the corner of his bed and tried to get away from him, though it seemed as if he was trying to climb up the wall and get out. John was terrified, his heart was pounding, and his hand was hiding his neck to keep it out of the vampire's view. But he continued to advance towards the cowering human even though he knew how scared he was of him.

"John," Sherlock said soothingly, "John it's me, Sherlock—"

"I know w-w-who you are," he stammered, "St-stay away from me!"

Sherlock raised a brow, but it did not stop him from moving forward to try to comfort John. The only thing he was armed with was his fists and even though they were not to be underestimated, Sherlock wouldn't be harmed by them.

"John, please," he said softly as he approached the end of the bed, John now about halfway up the wall, "It was just a nightmare. It's alright. Please listen to me. I won't hurt you, I promise. I have never done any harm to you and I will never do any harm to you. Drive a stake through my heart if I ever break that promise."

The doctor stared at him and slowly he let himself slide down the wall again, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock and not daring to let him out of his sight.

"Don't hurt me…don't hurt me," John mumbled over and over again as he closed his eyes, and Sherlock carefully approached him, sitting on his bed and slowly taking his hand in his own to press their palms together.

"It's alright," he said softly, "I'm here and I will not hurt you. I'm sorry you're afraid, but I promise you that whatever happened in your dream will not come true. Please believe me."

Slowly, John opened his eyes to rest on their hands pressed together and he was instantly calmed. He knew he was safe with Sherlock, he knew he would never do anything to harm him, and he knew that everything that he saw in his dream was just that: a dream. As long as he trusted Sherlock and Sherlock kept to his word, John would be safe. As long as Sherlock was around, John couldn't be harmed. As John let their hands fall, he was in wonder at how Sherlock's skin wasn't as icy as he had expected. It was a kind of ice that still held a hint of warmth in it as if blood still flowed beneath his pale white flesh.

"Thank you," John said softly and pulled his blankets back up to his chin to hide his faint blush from Sherlock. He didn't know why, but he didn't want to let Sherlock's hand go when he did, it felt too comforting for him to release it just yet. Yet there was something else seemingly hidden beneath it and he wished he hadn't let him touch his hand; a feeble wish, really, but the thought was quickly banished as he hid himself beneath the duvet.

"You're welcome," Sherlock said with a small smile and slowly rose from John's bed to go back downstairs to his room where he would spend the rest of the night lying wide awake. He kept his ears and eyes open in case The Woman came by to "check" on Sherlock and see if his human was still alive. His human…it was a strange thought, but Sherlock had grown attached to John in a very short amount of time. There was something about John that made him special, something that made him his best friend, and it would keep Sherlock up and wondering for quite some time.

By the time the morning sun rose, Sherlock had already showered, dressed, and prepared a small breakfast for John who stumbled into the kitchen around eleven in the morning.

"Good morning," Sherlock said as he sat across from the warm plate of bacon, eggs, and toast, "How do you feel?"

"Like hell," John mumbled and sat at his prepared place, immediately digging into the food and not caring if Sherlock had been the one to prepare it, "Couldn't really sleep after you left last night. The nightmare just worked me up, I suppose."

"Oh…I see. But you're a little better now, yes?"

John looked up at Sherlock beneath his lashes before returning his gaze to the delicious food.

"I will be after I eat. Do you have a case today?"

"Not yet, no. Lestrade has been a little quiet lately, but there may be something soon."

"Nothing you've caused, I'm sure."

"No, not at all. I'm not a killer, I'm a detective. There's a difference, John. And no, I would not kill them because I'm a vampire. I told you that already. It's been over a century since I've last killed a human."

By now John had gotten used to the casual talk about Sherlock's vampirism, though sometimes he would flinch at the gruesome tales Sherlock would tell him about the days when he worked in a butcher's shop to try and keep a smooth cover and still get blood, so it wasn't too terrible to hear talk like that first thing in the morning.

"I know you've told me," said John as he finished up his breakfast and took his plate to the sink, "Thanks for breakfast, by the way. It was good. I didn't know you could cook."

"I've had plenty of time to learn, so I figured 'why not?' and voila."

"You've had time to learn a lot of things. Take up anything else?"

"No, actually. I learned how to play the violin in my youth. Then I figured I might as well learn to cook to lure—"

John gave Sherlock a look and he snapped his mouth shut immediately, averting his eyes to the wall behind John's shoulder as a silent apology for going a bit too far.

"What did you learn in your youth?" Sherlock asked, a quick and comfortable subject change, "Surely years in primary school and an academy taught you some sort of talent outside being a doctor."

An insult? Hell if he knew, but he didn't take it as such if it was, and he answered with a shrug, "I learned clarinet in school. I can't play, but I still learned."

Sherlock chuckled and rose from his seat to throw away his juice box and get out his violin to play away the rainy day. It would be a long day for the both of them, for neither of them knew that they were being watched by more than one vampire; neither of them knew that they were being watched by Sherlock's brother's men in case he chose to turn on his mortal friend; neither of them knew that something was happening to them and that something had the potential to get them both killed; neither of them knew that Sherlock Holmes had begun to let himself fall victim to human error.